Ghost War (16 page)

As Zouvette told it, the base here stood in the way of the Minx’s attempt to secure this part of the valley and a section of a battered highway beyond called Route 9. That is what the Minx and, ultimately, CapCom wished to own, for it would expedite the conquest of the prosperous cities to the south. When those objectives were taken, the Viet Minx would control the top third of the country. This, coupled with the impending large attacks in the Middle Highlands and the southern Mekong Delta area, was expected to lead to the fall of the entire country. Only the stubborn resistance by the Legion for the last six weeks had prevented the Minx from rolling over the base and moving on.

As Zouvette explained it, it had been six weeks of hell.

From an original force of 12,000 paratroops—a multinational force of Legionnaires and mercenaries airlifted from what was once called India—all that remained after the nonstop brutal onslaught were about 150 men. And now they were all in a state of shell shock, barely capable of concerning themselves with anything but basic survival.

But that was not all.

“The entire medical staff is dead,” Zouvette went on. “The direct result of a complete lack of respect by the Viet Minx for the big red cross. We have no medical facilities. The distribution of supplies is nonexistent.

“Though it rains buckets everyday, the drinkable water supply is drying up very quickly. Just two days before your arrival, a nearby spring that we drew water from was poisoned by the Viet Minx. My men also do not have much in the way of food. Most of them have been hanging on by sheer willpower alone.”

There was no doubt that these defenders were fortunate that
Bozo
had come when it did, Hunter thought. Otherwise, the last assault would probably have turned into a complete slaughter, and the base finally overrun.

But the unspoken grim conclusion by everyone in the meeting was that the American’s sudden arrival had simply forestalled that outcome—by only a few days at the most.

Zouvette took a deep breath and went on. “We are surrounded by a seemingly bottomless reserve of attackers. Though they lack air power and heavy guns, the base is constantly pounded night and day by mortar and covered by sniper fire, as you have probably noticed. As soon as the monsoon season started, we were faced with human wave assaults—exactly like the one you landed in the midst of. Every time the heavens open up and the rains pour down, they attack. Whenever the downpour stops, so does the attack.”

Hunter just shook his head.

“But that seems ass-backwards,” Ben said. “Why attack constantly and then withdraw completely? If they continued, they could at least hold some territory—there seems to be plenty of them.”

“They do many strange things,” Zouvette agreed. “Each assault succeeds in overrunning one or two forward positions. Before they withdraw, they fill it with mines, poison, or even toxic waste to make it completely unusable for us again. It’s actually very clever, the little bastards. With each attack the perimeter shrinks, as does our force total. We will soon have our backs against the wall,” Zouvette said, indicating the small mountain about 100 yards behind
Bozo.
“This base was once three times as big, covering almost a hundred acres. Now, all that is left is this area here, a battered collection of bunkers, foxholes and trenches, most of which are over thirty years old. And I am sad to say that all of them are in shambles. Unfortunately, our resources are so depleted that nothing can be done to strengthen them or build new ones.”

And Zouvette confirmed one more thing for them. There was absolutely no command structure at the base. The commander, Colonel LaFeete, was quite insane.

“His orders have no ground in reality, either in a military sense or in his regard for the welfare of his troops,” Zouvette said quietly. “For this last assault, we only had just enough strength left to wait for them to walk into our bunkers. After that …” His voice trailed off and his eyes misted over as he thought of what might have happened. He tried to apologize for not having the ability to come to the rescue of the besieged C-5.

But Hunter would hear nothing of it.

“You’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty, my friend,” Hunter told him.

“My thanks to you, sir,” Zouvette said. “To all of you. Your timely arrival has saved us from being completely overrun. We are most grateful.”

Ben mixed up a pot of hot coffee; its aroma quickly filled the small space. Now close to noon, it was getting hot outside and in.

Zouvette took a long deep sip. Then his face brightened slightly. “Can your planes be fixed?” he asked hopefully.

It was up to Hunter to deliver the bad news.

“While the runway is basically in usable shape, it is a moot point.” He paused and looked at Zouvette. “Neither of our C-5s are going anywhere—they are not in flying condition. Nor could they be made so—we just don’t have the gear, the spare parts, or the capability.”

Zouvette’s expression instantly changed from hope to despair.

“Then we die here,” he said gloomily, staring into his coffee cup. “As will you, my friends.”

No one could disagree.

All in all, it was a bad state of affairs. Hunter knew from the radio transmissions picked up on the way in that they were not the only ones in desperate straits. The whole country of Vietnam was in big trouble, and the likelihood of someone coming to their rescue was practically nonexistent. As far as he knew, the people back at Edwards had no idea where any of them were. And even if they did, there was little they could do about it.

“The way I see it, we have two very clear objectives,” Hunter slowly began, using a real map of the area brought by Zouvette. “First, we have to defend ourselves. We have to secure the area. We can rebuild the bunkers and shore up the trenches with the heavy machinery on
NJ104.
We should also repair the wire, and contract our defensive area into a triangular formation. This way we can use the guns from
Bozo
for interlocking fire to the three main bunkers at the points of the triangle. We need to maintain these close-in positions as well as monitor the status of the entire outer perimeter. If the Minx continue to attack and make useless any forward positions, as Captain Zouvette has told us, we need to be updated constantly on the situation.

“Water supplies should be put on strict rationing,” Hunter went on. “Luckily, though, food isn’t a problem right now, as both
Bozo
and
NJ104
are loaded with MRE packs—we will supply the Legion with our surplus immediately.”

Hunter looked at each of the officers as they passed the coffee pot around the flight deck. Despite the dire situation, not one of these men showed the slightest hint of resignation. Instead, Hunter saw what might be considered as a contradictory vibe: a grim “can do” attitude. He’d been through a lot with them—especially Ben and Frost. But their demeanor never changed. He was proud of them, and proud that he could call them friends. And he knew that because of these men, and the men that served under them, ideas like freedom and democracy would prevail, no matter what the odds.

“Then,” Hunter continued, “The second thing we have to do is start thinking of ways to get out of here.”

Each man stared up at him, the expressions a mix of surprise and concern.

“How will we do that?” Frost asked.

Hunter just shrugged; he really had no idea. Yet.

Suddenly, they all heard the spatter of raindrops begin to splash onto the hull of the C-5. Now understanding what it signaled, they all froze—but just for a second. The Minx were about to attack again. They quickly grabbed their weapons.

“It’s time to take a closer look at who we’re fighting,” Hunter called over his shoulder as he climbed down into the hold.

Then he leapt from the port-side hatch and ran out into the intense downpour.

Not five seconds later, more than a thousand screaming, bugle-blowing, flag-waving Viet Minx emerged from the treeline 300 yards away and began a charge towards the base. This human wave was more than 200 yards wide and half as deep. Its obvious target was
Bozo.

Hunter looked back towards the battered airplane and saw the gun crews inside were scrambling to their positions. Off to the left, a small stream of tattered Legionnaires and their mercenaries were running through the trenchworks near the main bunker, manning what was left of their meager defense line. The arrival of
Bozo
seemed to have infused some hope into these desperate defenders.

Suddenly Ben was beside him.

“Our center and left flank are covered,” Ben yelled over the racket of bugles, screams, and pouring rain.

“Yeah, but our asses are hanging out on the right,” Hunter yelled back.

It was true. While there were some Legion positions to the right of
Bozo
, they were unmanned.

“Help the guys inside,” Hunter told Ben “I’ll see what I can do over here.”

With that, he was off into the torrential downpour.

Mortar rounds exploding all around him, Hunter ran about fifty feet before he spotted an abandoned M-60 machine-gun post at the edge of the wire. He dove in, head first, landing in a pool of thick mud. Wiping the sludge from his eyes, he saw the position was unmanned; the gunner and ammo feeder were lying in a crumpled heap at the back of the hole, cut to pieces by shell fragments. Judging by their skeletal appearance, they had been dead for quite some time.

Then he heard the screams. The attackers had reached the wire. To his far left, the front-line Legionnaires were meeting the onslaught head-on. To his near left, the gunners on
Bozo
were wisely holding their fire.

Leaping to the front of the post, Hunter cracked open two boxes of ammo, quickly loaded one belt into the big M-60, found its end, and with expended links that littered the hole, clipped it to the lead of the ammo in the second box. Then he quickly rolled over, jammed the butt of the gun against his right shoulder, and steadied himself against what was left of the sandbag wall.

The front of the first human wave was now less than fifty feet away from
Bozo.
For the first time he could see the faces of the enemy. To a man, they had that glazed look of a fanatic, one who was not only unafraid of dying but who seemed eager to embrace death in combat.

But there was something else that startled Hunter. The enemy soldiers were outfitted in exact replicas of the old field uniform of the Communist North Vietnamese army—the dreaded NVA. They were carrying AK-47s, wearing pith helmets and rubber-soled sandals. Hunter felt like he’d been suddenly transported back in time—to 1968, to the original battle of Khe Sanh.

It was very strange.

The front element of the human wave was now only thirty feet away. Their screaming got louder, their bugles were echoing, and the rain was coming down even harder.

Hunter waited a few more seconds—then he pulled the trigger.

His first burst laced across the center of the enemy charge now just twenty feet from his position. A dozen Minx dropped in their tracks. But more raced over their fallen comrades, screaming so madly Hunter thought he could see foam running from their mouths. He continued to fire, waving the smoking barrel back and forth, cutting down anything immediately in front of him. To his left, he could hear the roar of the guns on
Bozo
open up, the multitude of weapons blasting away at the main force of attackers. The rain was coming down incredibly hard now, totally blotting out the sun and making it as dark as midnight. Even the muzzle flash of Hunter’s big gun barely cut through the torrential downpour. He was firing blind—but he knew his bullets were finding their marks, simply from the screams of agony he heard between bursts.

But a big problem was looming. He was already through the first box of ammo and was now deep into the second. There were at least ten more boxes of ammo at the far edge of the gun post, but how was he going to get to them? The vanguard of the attackers were less than twenty feet away, with at least three more waves behind it.

Just then, Hunter sensed someone was in the hole beside him, Whirling around, he was startled to find a soldier, dressed in U.S. Marine combat fatigues and carrying no weapon, had apparently jumped into the gun position with him. Even though there was a serious puncture in his helmet, the Marine didn’t appear to be hurt. Nor did he seem to be concerned with the human wave assault that was almost right on top of them.

Hunter yelled to him, indicating the other boxes of ammo lying nearby. Then he turned, pointed the big M-60 back in the direction of the attackers, and began firing again.

But the man just smiled—and didn’t move.

Hunter ran out of ammo just as the first Viet Minx soldier reached the lip of the foxhole. Swinging the big gun around, The Wingman smashed the barrel into the enemy soldier’s face, sending him sprawling backwards. Another Minx leaped on top of Hunter—but Hunter rolled hard, kicking the man away. Rolling again, he slid up against the ammo boxes, and quickly broke one open with the gun butt. Another Minx was dispatched with a hard kick to the groin. Then Hunter jacked the lead round of the new belt into the M-60 and began firing once more.

One long burst took care of the seven other Minx who had overrun the gun post. Hunter ran back to his original position, dragging two more boxes of ammo with him. The man in the Marine uniform was still there, sitting as calmly as if it were a summer’s day at the beach.

“Thanks for the freaking help,” Hunter yelled at him angrily.

“You’re doing OK by yourself,” the Marine calmly replied.

“No thanks to you,” Hunter barked back over the chatter of the gunfire.

“I just want to offer a little advice,” the Marine told him.

A smoking hand grenade landed with a thud in the center of the gun post. In a flash, Hunter picked it up, hurled back at the charging Viet Minx, covering himself just as it went off in midflight.

“Are you crazy?” Hunter screamed at the Marine over the roar of the battle. “You’re going to get your ass killed!”

The Marine just laughed.

“Either help me or get the hell out of here!” Hunter yelled at him, pulling the M-60’s trigger once again.